5 times Tony was at Peter's bedside And the 1 time Peter was at his
by Eva7673
Summary: The kid was going to give Tony a heart-attack one of these days - always webbing into trouble. Until the day it's Tony in trouble, and Peter's world falls apart. (Special thanks to Spidey-Art - on Tumblr - for the beautiful artwork!)


A 'little' Christmas/Holiday gift for you all!

…it is definitely not as 'little' as it was planned to be…

* * *

1.

Peter's drool was just starting to coagulate when something smacked down on the desk hard enough to rattle the beakers across from Peter. And Peter's brain, which had been resting inside his skull, which was resting firmly against said desk.

Peter shot up with a strangled yelp. Kicking the chair across from him and sending it pelting to the table across from him. The occupants shot him a heated glare.

"Nice reflexes."

Peter's eyes shot over to MJ, who was leaning over her books, which had broken him from his doze, and eyeing him warily.

"Thanks." He said.

Her brows curved closer together, and that scrutinizing stare grew more suspicious.

"I was mocking you," she said, nodding over to the chair that the students in front of him were currently picking up and trying to set back on its feet despite one now being bent at an odd angle. "That was embarrassing."

"Right." Peter murmured, his brain barely following the conversation. He was so _incredibly _tired. He felt like he had to fight his way though feet of fog just to find a single thought. "Yeah."

MJ slid into the seat next to him.

"What's up with you?"

"Nothing," He said, quickly, shaking his head – probably a little _too_ forcefully – in an attempt to clear out some of the fog. It didn't work. "Really, I just – ugh – didn't sleep much last night."

MJ was still eyeing him like she was waiting for the body snatcher inhabiting him to fess up. To be honest, so was he a little. He hadn't felt this tired, or this _weak_, since well before the spider-bite.

"No shit." MJ said. "You look like that raccoon Flash caught on camera stealing the welcome mat out of the cat flap in his back door."

That broke through the fog, a little. Peter barked out a short laugh that died as quickly as it had come and seemed to take what little strength he had with it.

"He showed you that."

MJ scowled. "He showed _everyone_ that." She said. "It's been his Instagram story everyday for, like, a week now."

Peter nodded, wearily.

"Yeah."

MJ poked him in the arm. Hard.

"So what's keeping you up?"

That woke Peter up.

"What, nothing." He said, eyes wide. His brain felt like it was working too hard just to get even the worst of lies out, and this one was necessary. Important. MJ was too observant.

MJ's eyes narrowed, one brow lifting almost into her hair. "You just said you didn't sleep."

"Right, but, like, nothing was _keeping_ me up." Peter said quickly. "I wasn't doing anything." He added. "I was just," he floundered for a moment. "Not sleeping." He finished lamely. God. What was wrong with him?

Truth was he'd spent the night caught up with a string of bodega robberies. A crew from Jersey had come over, split up, and hit nearly a dozen across Queens. Peter and the police had had their work cut out for them, barely stopping one robbery before the next was coming over the radio. He and Ned had been up until six, and then, while Ned had fallen right to sleep and his mom had let him have the day off, Peter had gotten home, raced to get changed, and left for school. May would have let him stay home. Definitely. But she also would have lectured him on responsibility, and the importance of taking care of himself and his grades. Again. As it was he was surprised that Tony hadn't called him to lecture about the all-nighter. He'd kept Peter's suit for almost a month after Peter and Wanda were rescued from the Raft, claiming that Peter needed to recover, and not just physically. Peter had argued, but his heart hadn't been entirely in it. In all honesty he'd been more than a little shaken after everything that went down. It had been nice to have those weeks just hanging in the lab with Tony, running laps with Cap when he was feeling more up to it, and then going back to school without the added stress of midnight activities.

The school had opened almost two weeks after the attack, despite that no one had any idea what had happened. It had been passed of as an accident. A SWAT team sent to the wrong location for a raid. It had been all over the news, the press having a field day with it. Peter had felt a little bad. They had come for him after all, and now he and his classmates could barely make it in the front doors of the school without someone shoving a microphone in their faces. Some were loving it. Others, like Peter, not so much. Every microphone coming at his face sent him spiralling. _What if they knew? What if Ross told someone?_

So far he'd been fine. Tony had assured him everything was fine.

And then Ross had died.

It had been all over the news – taken some pressure off the school, which had been a plus. Also, the man was dead…which was also kind of a plus on its own. Peter felt kind of bad about it sometimes, but he couldn't deny the almost overwhelming feeling of relief that had come when he first heard. Peter had confessed as much to Tony when the older man had pulled him aside when they first found out – clearly worried how he might take it. Peter had expected Tony to be disappointed, but to his immense surprise the man had almost smiled. _I'm glad_. Tony had said, and Peter's eyes had widened to the size of saucers. _He hurt you – twice – and anyone who hurts you doesn't deserve your kindness_. He'd leant forward and rested a single hand along Peter's cheek, perhaps even wiping away a single tear that Peter would never admit too, and continued. _Do you feel safer now? _Tony had asked. Peter had nodded. _Good_, Tony had said, giving one firm nod, his dark eyes ablaze. _Good_.

And it had been good.

The six weeks since Ross's death had been good. Peter went home. Went back to school. Back to building Lego with Ned, and then rebuilding it when Ned's mom's cat, Mama Smooches, knocked it off his shelf right in front of them. Everything was normal. And eventually, after more than a dozen medical check-ups and even more talks with May and Tony about how he was feeling since the Raft, he got his suit back. Being without it had been soothing – like balm on sunburn – but having it back…felt like having himself back. Like finding that little bit that had been missing since Ross took him. Or even before that, since the attack on the Compound months before. He felt alive and free, and sailing off of that first building with Ned in his ear and Tony at his back – refusing to let him out on his own the first few nights – had been one of the best jumps of his life. They had soared through the city. Tabloids had run wild with pictures of the two of them. Tony had been bombarded with questions. _Do you know who Spiderman is under the mask? Are you working together? Is Spiderman an Avenger?_ It had been unnerving – too much media attention always made him nervous – but Tony's answers had definitely made his week.

_No_. He'd responded, the article taking the time to note how at ease he seemed talking about Spiderman. How relaxed and confident. _Not yet. Perhaps one day. They definitely have the heart for it – they're going to be the best of all of us. _

Peter might have had the article framed. And saved to his laptop. And screen shotted on his phone.

Things had been really, just, _good_.

Except for the fog that had taken up residence in Peter's brain since he sat down almost ten minutes ago for first period, and now refused to leave.

MJ stared at him blankly.

"You're weird."

Peter sighed. His head dipped back towards the desk dangerously. "I know."

MJ shrugged, pulling her books closer to her and resting her elbows on them. "It's cool as long as you sleep before the decathlon meet this weekend," she said. "You're still good for it, right?"

Peter nodded. The motion made him feel a little sick.

"Yeah, definitely."

MJ nodded, too. "Good, because I will not be able to handle the six hour drive to Pittsburgh if Flash is going to be sitting in." She lamented. "Last time he sat in the seat next to me and spent three hours telling me how he's a contender for a Nobel Prize in business."

Even that filtered through the fog that had set up camp in Peter's brain. "There is no Nobel Prize for business." He said.

MJ's eyes were alight with fury. "Oh, I am aware." They lit up her whole face. She was so pretty. Wait. What. Do not say that out loud. _Do not say that out loud!_ "He is not."

"Well, I'll sit next to you to Pittsburgh," Peter said, and then the words filtered through his brain at the same, snail-like, pace as everything else that morning and horror washed over him. Oh god. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. "I mean – if you want – if that's cool – if-"

MJ shrugged again.

"That'd be cool." She said, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Peter felt as if a slab had been suddenly removed from his chest.

"Cool." He nodded. _Cool_. God, he felt light headed.

"We should probably go over some stuff before the weekend," MJ went on, as if Peter hadn't just been dying. "You good if we have a meeting in lunch?"

"Yeah," He said, gaping in air like the classroom might run out at any moment. "Good – great."

MJ didn't seem to notice. She had her phone out and was typing rapidly. Peter's heart rate settled. Somewhat.

"I'll put it in the group-chat, but could you tell Ned?" She asked, starting to talk faster. Peter's fog ridden brain could barely keep up. "He never checks it."

"Of course." Peter said. Now that he was looking at her without fear that she was about to laugh in his face he could see that he wasn't the only one who looked tired. Purple bags hung down beneath her eyes. "Do you want me to do anything else? There must be heaps to do?" Peter asked, suddenly worried that he'd been slacking. And he had. Before he'd gotten the suit back he'd had plenty of time to work on Decathlon stuff, but after, he had to admit he'd fallen behind on some things. The sheer exhilaration of being Spiderman again had been more than a little distracting – but had MJ been picking up the slack? He felt sick again – only this time it had nothing to do with being tired.

"Most stuff is done," MJ said, still typing in the group message. She stopped suddenly, letting her phone fall, and groaned. "Ugh, but I do have to remind Mr. Harrington to send out updated information slips with the new departure time. I've asked him, like, four times already-" she was already back on her phone before she'd even finished talking.

"I'll remind him." Peter said quickly.

MJ's eyes darted up to his from her phone. "You will."

"Yeah," Peter said, nodding viciously again and making himself dizzy. "You do everything," MJ's eyebrows crept up again, and Peter backtracked. "But, like, _really_ well, so, yeah-" he tried, and failed, to explain. "But definitely, I'll remind him." Peter said again. "And if anything else comes up, just let me know. I can help. You shouldn't have to do everything."

MJ was silent for a moment.

"Thanks."

Peter smiled. Huh. Maybe this wasn't so hard.

"No worries."

MJ nodded again, and then scooped her books back into her arms and stood.

"I'll see you at lunch."

Peter blinked up at her. What?

"You're not staying?"

She looked around, and then back down at Peter.

"No." She said slowly. "This isn't my class."

Yeah. The fog was definitely winning in his fight for clarity. "But-" He stuttered, gaping up at her. "We have bio together?"

MJ nodded very slowly. "We do." She said. "This isn't your class either." She added, giving him a tight-lipped smile as his eyes darted around the class and realised that, indeed, this was _not_ their class. "It's Tuesday morning. You have calculus."

Everything seemed to set in very slowly. And hazily. And then all at once.

Tuesday. Calculus. Pop quiz.

"_Shit!_"

* * *

"Remind me again why we took the plane, and as a result I now have a tension headache that feels like a sledgehammer is hitting me in the back of the head. Repeatedly." Tony asked the air above his head, having thrown it back against the couch almost five minutes ago and spent all that time examine the roof of the plane. There were 93 tiles – and not enough overhead storage space. Hmm. He might have to look into that.

"Because this is a _peace_ conference," Rhodey's voice floated over from the couch across from Tony, but Tony couldn't see him due to his head currently lying at a ninety-degree angle. Tony could only hear the occasional turn of a page and Rhodey riffled through the information package about the conference. "And showing up in a heavily armed suit of armour might send the wrong message."

"I wouldn't have taken a _weaponized_ suit." Tony grumbled. Rhodey ignored him, flipping another page of the pamphlet with added rigor if the noise it made was anything to go by. "Could have been there by now."

Rhodey flipped another page. Violently.

"Suffer."

Tony let out a long groan and finally pulled his head down to cast an eye over his friend.

"What's wrong, pokey-bear?" He asked, letting his head fall to one side where it was pressed up against the back of his couch. He was slouching so much that his ass was almost fully falling off – and there'd be hell to pay for it tomorrow when his back rebelled with a fury – but he couldn't be bothered to pull himself upright. And had no reason to. No work – banned by Pepper after he pulled a thirty-hour lab marathon almost a week ago. No Pepper – in Chicago. No fun – banned by Rhodey. Apparently. "Bee's not sharing their honey?"

Rhodey huffed, but didn't reply. He was flipping through the pages of the briefing packet so harshly that a few tore. Huh.

Tony pulled up straight on his couch and stared over at his friend, raising a single brow when Rhodey's eyes finally darted up to meet his.

They were both silent for a moment.

Rhodey let out a long breath and tossed the briefing packet aside. "I have to go to his memorial service." He hissed through his teeth, eyeing Tony apprehensively.

Tony felt his brow furrow, not following at all.

"Whose?"

Rhodey's shoulders fell.

"Ross's."

Oh.

"Oh." The thought fell out of Tony's mouth. He sat back against the couch, resuming his slouched position with his head scrunched up against the upholstery. "Right. That." He murmured. _That_.

The funeral had been a private affair. Family, maybe, what little friends Tony imagined a man like that could have. Tony hadn't looked into it. It had been only a few days after and Tony hadn't even heard until after, still to pre-occupied by Peter, who had only left the Compound mere days before, and Wanda, who had still been under medical surveillance despite her evident, and continually expressed, displeasure. It turned out both the team's juvenile delinquents were determined to grey Tony's hair criminally early.

To be honest Tony had barely spared the man a thought since he wandered away from his office the day be died.

The day Tony murdered him.

Tony clapped his hands together and gave a shrug – or attempted to. He was pretty sure the couch swallowed most of it.

"Well, if you want a date…"

Rhodey's eyebrows shot up, his eyes boring into Tony's – searching.

They hadn't really talked about it. Rhodey had tried, but Tony hadn't had anything to say.

It had all come out in the media, the whispers of Ross's deception and treason, of the families who had long held a grudge. Whispers of fourteen bottles of Scotch – that was how many had arrived in the end. And since none were labelled, and all came in identical cases, the investigators assigned to the case had stalled out. No one knew who poisoned him. Including his poisoner.

But Tony knew who really killed him – and so did Rhodey, and Cap, and definitely Natasha, and maybe all the others too? Tony didn't really mind.

He was the first to admit that he had more regrets than most – but watching the life drain from that man would never be one of them.

Rhodey continued to eye him warily.

"You would really go?"

Tony shrugged again. The couch ate the movement. Again. "I would." And he meant it. "I've never spat on a grave before. I hear it's cathartic. I think I'd like to try it."

Rhodey rolled his eyes and finally dropped his fastidious strip-down of Tony's reactions.

He pulled the briefing packet back into his lap from where it had fallen on the couch next to him.

"I'm trying to find a way out of it."

"Don't bother," Tony said. "Just go."

The briefing packet bent dangerously under Rhodey's curling fingers. "I don't know if I can sit through an hour of people praising that man's life. His _service_." The word curved on his tongue. As if it rebelled against letting it slip out at all. "Not after everything." He glanced back up at Tony. "How does it not bother you?"

He gave yet another shrug. His shoulder protested, and the couch seemed to push him further down. "Because he died chocking on the consequences of his actions," He said. "And now he is nothing more than a bad memory, and an ugly corpse." He gave a small, fluttering wave. "He doesn't matter anymore."

"Still." Rhodey argued, "I'm surprised they're going ahead with the full honours service after everything that's come out."

"No offence honey-bun, but the U.S. government isn't one to fess up to their mistakes." Tony said with a tight smile. Rhodey scowled but didn't disagree. "Did Steve get an invite?"

Rhodey's eyes shot back up – back to the scrutinizing of Tony's face.

"He did."

Tony lifted a single eyebrow.

"And?"

Rhodey huffed out a short chuckle. "And he laughed right in the face of the senator that handed it to him, and then handed it right back."

A bark of laughter clawed its way out from Tony's chest. That was both surprising…and not surprising at all.

"You know," Tony mussed, "I thought that Mr. America would be more worried about trampling over good, ye old, American values, but the man makes it practically a sport."

Rhodey's reply was dry. And correct.

"I am not surprised at all the that ninety pound kid getting into fights in alley ways has both an attitude _and_ a stubborn streak to match yours."

Tony held up a single hand between them.

"Now let's not go too far." He cautioned, earning himself another eye roll. "My stubborn streak is adorable, and in an entirely other realm than Mr. Righteous'." Tony argued. "He's in the kiddy-pool, I'm major leagues."

"Only you would see that as a good thing." Rhodey grumbled, eyes turning back to the briefing packet in this lap.

"It's an amazing thing." Tony argued, closing his eyes and, somehow, despite the laws of physics, sinking further into the couch. "I'm glorious." He said. Rhodey huffed again. But there was affection in this huff. Tony opened a single eye. "You love me." He accused his friend, a smile curving at his lips.

Rhodey glared over at him.

"I do." He surrendered, easily. Tony smiled again, and closed his one open eye again.

He was basking a little. Just a little. Things were good. Good. No world ending catastrophes. No spiderlings with absolutely no sense of self-preservation getting themselves in over their heads – and triggering Tony's heart problems. The team was still hold up at the Compound, the Accords currently under review now Ross was out of the picture, but they were no longer on house arrest, which meant Tony no longer had to deal with a house brimming with pent-up frustration. Discussions around the Accords had been good. Moving forward. Tony had even brought Steve into a couple so that the man could hear the change for himself, make his own recommendations, and start to grasp that this was really happening. And he had. Surprising Tony, again, the Captain had taken it all on board. Sure he had a few areas he wanted to flesh out – grey areas he wanted cleared away, and clauses for potentially unpredictable occurrences where they would have to work in the moment – but all in all things were moving. The team was back to training together. Wanda was back on her feet after the Raft fiasco – though definitely sooner than either Tony or Steve was comfortable with.

Things were just _good_.

Sue him; he wanted to bask a little before it all went to shit, as it inevitable would.

There was a moment of silence. And then another. And another. And then Tony couldn't take it. He tapped once on the edge of the couch, the soft material letting out an oddly _thump_ with each hit. He tapped again. And again. And then several more until he was drumming out the base cords for Metallica's–

"Stop that."

Rhodey's voice cut over his impromptu concert.

Tony cracked open a single eye again.

Rhodey was glaring coolly at him over the briefing packet.

"Are we _there_ yet."

"And now I hate you."

* * *

"Wow. Dude"

Calculus had not gone well for Peter. He'd managed to find his way to the classroom without any further misadventure, but he'd been late. Very late. And very dizzy. Not that the two were related, but his lateness and his dizziness seemed about equal at the moment – both being _very high_.

Maybe coming to school hadn't been the best idea.

He had spent the rest of the period trying to keep his head from hitting the desk when he faded. And failing. At one point he was fairly sure he passed out altogether because he lost nearly twenty-five minutes, and he did _not_ remember falling asleep.

Ned's wide, and more than slightly horrified, gaze supported that theory.

Peter shuffled over to him where he was leaning against Peter's locker, apparently frozen at the sight of Peter. Huh. He didn't look that bad. Did he?

Ned's eyes only widened, as he got closer. Maybe he did.

"I thought you were taking the day off?" Peter asked, reaching up the spin the dial on his locker door. He could barely see the numbers. He yanked on the locker. It didn't open. He span again.

"I was gonna, mom was cool with it," Ned nodded, still staring, although clearly trying to seem more chill about it. "But we've got free time in shop together and I thought we could – _wow_!" Peter – too focused on the numbers on his locker dial, which were becoming harder and harder to focus – started to list to the side. His heart was racing in his chest, and his stomach curling. Ned caught him roughly as he slid along the locker doors, keeping him upright. "Dude!"

Peter swallowed the bile spilling up into his throat.

"I'm fine."

Ned was panting under Peter's weight. Or panic. Either was likely.

"You are so not fine."

Peter reached forward, seizing a hold of one of the lockers in front of him and using it to pull himself against the cool metal.

"I just need to-" he breathed, chest feeling suddenly very heavy. His legs buckled, and this time Ned wasn't fast enough. He slid all the way down the lockers to sit and at the bottom with is legs stretched out in front of him. The world span dangerously for a moment "-sit." He finished lamely. "Sitting is good." He nodded, his eyes slipping closed. "Sitting is nice."

Ned knelt down next to him.

"We need to call someone."

Peter started to shake his head and then stopped, instantly. No. No shaking. Nausea was building deep in his stomach again.

"No," Peter said. "No." He waved what he hoped was a casual arm between them, but going by how limp it felt and how hard it hit the floor when he let it fall, Peter doubted he succeeded. "I'm fine. Sitting is fine. This is good."

Ned was not convinced.

"Peter, you look like a _corpse_." He hissed, glancing around them. Thankfully the hallway had emptied out. They were well into lunch now, and everyone was probably shoving one-another in the cafeteria line. "We have to call someone."

Peter drew in a deep breath. It did little to settle his racing heart. Or his nausea. Or anything really.

"Can't."

"_Can_," Ned argued, hands running over Peter's jacket. Digging into his pockets. "Where is your phone?"

Peter battered the hands away gently. He just needed to sit for a minute. Just a minute.

"_Can't_." He said again. "May's on a double shift, and Mr. Stark's flying to-" He knew this. Peter definitely knew this. Tony had mentioned it – complained about it – and Peter had been so jealous- "-somewhere." Nope. The fog had completely taken over now. "Somewhere important." He sighed, letting his head fall back against the lockers. "We can't bother him."

Ned's hands were still rummaging through Peter's pockets.

"I don't think he'll mind."

Peter moved to stop him, again.

"No," He argued, "I just need to-" he twisted up, moving to pull Ned's hands away, and his stomach twisted with him. Oh god. "-vomit." He cut himself off, pushing up off the floor with a new sense of urgency. And it was _urgent_. "I need to vomit."

"_Wha-_" Ned scrambled to his feet alongside Peter, following a step behind as Peter dashed to the bathroom door across from them and practically threw himself inside a stall. Ned followed him in. "_Jesus_!"

Peter heaved, and everything he'd ever eaten in his entire life came thundering back up. It hurt. His eyes were watering. The room was spinning – and not the good spinning. Not _this is my fifth time on the Coney Island Cyclone and if I go again I may vomit_. No. This was more of _I'm fairly sure my brain is leaking out of my ears_ kind of spinning.

Peter fell back against the wall behind him, attempting to run a hand over his mouth and missing completely. He tried to raise his hand again, but it was too heavy.

Okay. Something was wrong. Something was _very_ wrong.

"Ned-"

Ned was knelt down beside him in a second.

"What?!" He panted, hands raised but not touching Peter. Clearly freaked the _hell_ out and not sure what to do. That made two of them. "_What do you need_!?"

Peter meant to say something. Get help, maybe? Call May? Call Tony? Maybe. But the fog was taking over now, and thoughts were coming and going so fast that it was hard to capture them before the fog swept them away.

One flitted across his mind right as he opened his mouth.

"-I think MJ likes me-"

With that the fog finally won out. Peter's world spun one more time before he was falling.

And then everything was gone.

* * *

"Are we there yet, _now_?"

"I will come over there and kick you with my braces, don't think that I wont."

Tony rolled his head back and groaned loudly. And excessively.

"_Now_…?"

Tony was barely through the word before Rhodey was throwing the – almost finished – briefing packet aside and launching up off of his couch.

"Right, that's it, you fuc-"

A shrill sound of his phone vibrating, and the distinct, yet muffled, sound of the original Underoo's ad. from 1978 echoing from it, had Tony pulling away as Rhodey descended on him.

"_Pause_!" He screeched, curling into a tight ball on the couch – not an easy thing to do with his reduced lung capacity and the almost hysterical laughter that was bubbling up from his chest. Rhodey was trying to look less than impressed, but there was a slight curve to his mouth that meant Tony hadn't quite crossed into peak frustration levels. Yet. "That's the kid, I have to answer before you maim me." Tony heaved, pulling himself back into an upright position and fishing the phone out of his jacket pocket as Rhodey huffed his way back over to his own seat. A temporary truce set. "Impart final wisdoms. Tell him where the will is. Warn him about the six-fingered blackjack dealer on the shady end of the Vegas strip who will fleece you for everything you have –," Tony rambled as he answered the call.

He didn't have time to get a greeting word in before someone on the other end of the line was practically screaming through the phone.

"-M-Mr. Stark!?"

Tony yanked his ear away from the phone, the mere volume of that voice enough to send him deaf. And the panic in it ready to send him spiralling into a panic attack.

"You are not Peter." He breathed through the phone, his brain suddenly very slow with the uptake of what was happening. Rhodey's eyes flashed up to him. All humour forgotten.

That same, panicked, voice flooded back through the phone. A familiar panicked voice.

"N-no. I-I'm Ned. It's Ned. Ned from-"

Tony cut him off, sitting up straighter and moving the edge of the couch. The phone crushed against his ear now the kid was no longer yelling.

"I know who you are, Ned." Tony said. "Why are you calling me? What have you two gotten yourselves in now?"

Somehow the kid's panic seemed to only grow.

"N-Nothing!" He screeched, and Tony had to pull the phone away again. "Nothing, _I swear_! Nothing was wrong-"

"Hey, hey," Tony called over him, his own heart-rate thundering as he fought to get a comprehensible answer out of the kid. "Calm down. What's happened?"

"I don't know!" Ned heaved, his voice sounding awfully close to sobbing. "I don't know – _but he won't wake up_!"

Everything in Tony froze. He felt almost weightless for a moment.

"What do you mean 'he won't wake up?'" Tony asked, quieter, and slower, than he'd asked anything yet only because he suddenly couldn't find enough air in his lungs to yell it. To scream it. "_Peter_?!" The name came out strangled, as if his brain just couldn't compute the idea of _Peter_ and _won't wake up_. "Is Peter okay?"

"I don't _know_!" Ned thundered down the phone. "He just collapsed in the toilet, and now he _won't wake up-_"

"Calm down," Tony snapped, and when that didn't seem to work, snapped harder. "_Calm down_! I need you to focus." He roared down the phone. Ned fell silent. He'd feel bad about practically screaming at the kid later. Right now other things on his mind. "Is he breathing? Does he have a pulse?" His mind had snapped into engineering mode.

Fix. Fix. Identify the problem. Find the damage. _Fix. It._

"I don't-"

Tony didn't let Ned get the words out. They didn't have time and Tony didn't know what he'd do if he had to wait another goddamn second before he got an answer. His heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of his very chest.

"_Check_!" Tony thundered, fighting to draw in every breath, and feeling like he was failing more and more. No. No this couldn't be happening. Not again. "_Right now_!"

Rhodey had moved from his couch to kneel in front of Tony, clearly hanging on Ned's every word, as Tony was. His hand was clenched around Tony's knee almost painfully hard. The pressure would have been calming in any other situation, but not this one.

It felt like minutes before Ned answered, every second dragging so painfully slowly into the next that Tony started to worry that he might actually be having a heart attack. His chest was heaving with every attempt to draw in breath. It hurt. It hurt _so_ much.

_It's just a panic attack_, Tony told himself, gripping the phone like the lifeline it had become. Like it was Peter's lifeline. _Just a panic attack. You have to get a grip. You have to-_

"H-he's breathing-" Ned stuttered over the phone, his lungs sounding almost as uncooperative as Tony's, "-but not well, I don't think – I don't know-" he went on, "-and his pulse feels really fast."

Okay. Okay. None of that was _good_, but he was breathing. He was alive. Tony could work with alive.

"Okay. Okay." Tony said, the words slipping though his lips before he even realized he was speaking. "Is he bleeding?"

There was shuffling on the other side of the phone.

"No – wait, yes." Ned panted. Tony's chest tightened somehow, despite that he already felt like he was being crushed by a forklift. "A little." Ned added. "He hit his head on wall when he collapsed."

"Is there anything else that you can see?" Tony pressed. "Bruises? Cuts? Anything?"

Tony could almost hear Ned shaking his head over the phone as his quiet sobs came and went from the phone's microphone.

"No."

"Did he get hurt last night? While he was out?"

"No – I mean, not that he told me – but I don't know – I didn't ask-"

Tony had already dove across the short lounge space and seized Rhodey' tablet from the duffle he'd shoved under his seat. He unlocked it effortlessly and whirled back to where Rhodey was now on his feet as well, tense and clearly none too happy that, now over 1000 miles away, there was _nothing _they could do.

Tony shoved his phone back between his ear and his shoulder and let his fingers fly over Rhodey's tablet. Unlocking his servers. Unlocking Peter's.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y pull up the last sequence of data from the suit – give me vital stats." He muttered as she installed herself on the tablet and began to take control. While she worked Tony pulled the phone back to his lips and turned his attention back to a still gasping Ned. "Is he cold? Does he feel cold?"

"Yeah, yeah!" Ned practically yelled, clearly relieved to actually be able to give a positive answer. Not that the answer was all that positive in terms of the kid's welfare. "He feels really cold – is he okay!?"

Tony's fingers were still flying across the tablet, moving through the logs of the kid's movements last night – _Jesus_, was there anywhere in the city he _hadn't_ been –

"He's in shock." Tony said. Laboured breathing. Thready pulse. Cold. That much was clear – what wasn't clear was _why_. The kid had been fine all night. And it had been all night. He was in the suit from the moment he finished school to the moment he stepped back inside – and yeah, they were going to have words about that – but as far as damage the night had been relatively calm. Only one wrong web-sling heading towards Elmhurst that had sent him careening into a street sign – he'd probably done the sign more damage than he'd done himself.

"What!?" Ned's terrified squeals across the phone broke him out of his complete focus on F.R.I.D.A.Y's lack of data. "_Why_!?

"I don't know yet." Tony said, throwing the tablet back down on the couch – probably a little harder than necessary – and looked back to Rhodey, who was still hovering. "Look – I'm going to send the call to Rhodey, my friend, and he's going to walk you through what to do, how to take care of him-" Rhodey was nodding along with him, darting around Tony to snatch his phone of the of the duffle under his couch, "-okay, just sit tight and I'll get someone to you. I'll get someone to you-"

Tony didn't wait for the kid's response. Couldn't. Peter didn't have time.

And in all honesty Tony didn't know how much more time he had before he completely fell to pieces.

No. No. Everything had been _good_. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't do this agai-

He forwarded the call to Rhodey with a flick of his fingers, and barely registered the other man begin talking, slowly and calming, to Ned, before he was dialling again.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.

"Hey, how's the flight-"

Tony only let Steve get that much out before he was talking over him because he'd been too busy trying to suck in enough air to be able to breathe, let alone speak. He'd succeeded. Kind of.

Every inch of him was still shaking.

"I need you to get to Midtown Tech like _five minutes ago-_"

Yeah. He was definitely running out of breath. The last words came out wrecked, and barely comprehensible.

But Steve got them.

"Tony, what?" He prodded, all humour gone. "What's happened?" Tony couldn't tell if Steve was just that good at reading people, or if Tony was falling apart that badly, but the man sounded ready to move mountains.

Tony had never been more relieved to hear that defiant, _go fuck yourself_, voice than he was in that moment. Steve would get to him. Steve would take care of him. Steve wouldn't let _anyone touch him_.

The relationship that Tony had thought all but ruined after what happened in that bunker was still rocky – the elephant that was Barnes still felt like it sat on their shoulders, but not all the time. Sometimes they were just Tony and Steve. They sat and had a beer on the Compound's lawn when the weather was nice, and the re-build inside bared them from the lounges. They snipped at each other about baseball. Slowly, they had been building trust.

Or, at least, Tony had thought it had been building slowly. Apparently not, because Tony was about to throw one of the things he treasured more than he could even quantify into the man's hands and hope he would catch. And he wasn't even remotely hesitant to do so.

Steve would get to him. Steve would take care of him.

The relationship was still strained. Steve had still lied. Still hurt him. But somewhere along the way that old trust had reformed – and _god_ Tony hoped he was right about this, because he was about to bet _everything _on it –

"Peter's collapsed in the bathroom and he won't wake up, _and I don't know what's wrong_." Tony breathed into the phone. Steve went silent. "And I don't have _a damn suit _with me so I can't fly back-"

"-_Breath_," Steve's voice cut across him when Tony's words started to meld together. Tony heard him pull away from the phone, murmuring to someone else, and then tires screeching. "We were in the city and we're already moving – we'll be there in ten."

Tony nodded – not even registering that Steve couldn't see him – and locked eyes with Rhodey across from him. Rhodey's jaw was set. His shoulders tense.

He pulled the phone away from his lips.

"Kid's freaking out."

Tony heaved out a breath, and then dragged in another, and then when that didn't work sank to his knees on the carpeted plane floor and curled up against the couch. His knees flush against his chest and his head dipped between them.

_Breath_. _Breath. The kid needs you_.

"Drive faster." Tony hissed over the phone to Steve.

Steve echoed the words to whoever was apparently driving, and then more tire screeching followed. Louder this time, and definitely illegal in the state of New York. Tony was ready to kiss them.

"Four minutes." Steve thundered over the sound of vicious car honking. "We're four minutes out." Tony nodded again. They were nearly there. Nearly there – but the kid was still unconscious. It had been, what, four minutes now? Five since the kid actually fell and Ned got to his phone? That was too long. Too long. Something had to be wrong. Something was seriously wrong and Steve wasn't going to be prepared to handle it. If it was an internal injury – or a brain injury – Steve wouldn't be able to do anything, and they were just wasting more time–

"-Tony, _Tony_!"

Steve's booming voice broke through Tony's haze just as Rhodey's hand clenched around his arm, shaking him viciously. He felt cold all over. And hollow.

Tony looked up to see Rhodey's eyes inches from his. They were wide and panicked.

"I'm here."

Tony wasn't sure who he was assuring, Rhodey or Steve. Maybe both.

Maybe himself.

He was still here, and Peter was still here. Panicking was not going to fix this.

Steve's voice flooded over the phone again. It was hard. Certain. Leaving no room for argument. "It's going to be okay." He said, so sure that even Tony found himself nodding. "We're almost there."

Tony nodded again.

"Steve-"

Steve waited for him to continue, but when words failed Tony and he fell silent, Steve prompted him. "Tony?"

Tony swallowed whatever lingering doubts he had about Steve – and to be honest, there weren't all that many – and threw himself at the man's mercy.

"I need him." Tony said. They were the first words to come out evenly. So true that not even the aftermath of a panic-attack could shake them. "_Please_."

It felt a little like slicing himself open and laying at Steve's feet, praying that the man might take mercy and stitch him back together.

_Stark men are made of iron._

Tony didn't feel like iron. He felt like a thousand wires all coiled too tightly, and ready to snap at any moment. He felt hollow and cold.

"I have him." Steve's words were soft, but possibly the most sincere thing Tony had ever heard in his life. "Tony, I have him, I swear."

And there it was. The needle. To sow him back together.

"Thank-you."

There were tears on his face. Tony could feel them. He wiped them away on the legs of his pants before Rhodey see.

"Don't ever thank me." Steve breathed over the phone. "I have you both, always."

The hollow well in Tony's chest eased. Just a little.

"We're pulling up at the school now." Steve yelled, over the most violent screeching of tires yet. "Which bathroom?"

Tony looked up to Rhodey.

"Which bathroom?"

Rhodey echoed the question through his phone to Ned.

"Science building – big brick one on the far west side – second floor."

Tony breathed the directions back to Steve.

"Heading up now." Steve said, breathing heavily. He must have been _necking_ it. Again Tony was tempted to kiss the man with gratitude. "I'm going to hang up, just for a moment, but I'll call you right back when we have him, I swear."

Tony nodded. The call ended.

Tony glanced up to Rhodey, who still had his own phone crushed against his ear as he talked to Ned. He took in a single breath, this one finally making it all the way to his lungs, and then his brain, and rose to his feet in one smooth movement.

Tony pulled his phone back up to his lips.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y," He breathed. "Turn the plane around."

* * *

Steve launched up the last seven stairs to the second floor in one bound, Sam and Clint thundering up behind him. He skidded over the landing, casting a wild look up and down the hall. The men's bathroom was about halfway down the corridor to his right. Steve pelted towards it, vaguely aware of Clint and Sam reaching the landing and following.

He shouldered through the door.

"Peter!" He called, trying his best to keep his voice level, but struggling. He'd had to force himself to be calm when he was talking to Tony – God knows the man was panicked enough for both of them – but his heart was thundering. Fear coiling deep in his gut. "Pete!?"

Something moved in the stall furthest from the door.

"Here!" The stall door burst open, Peter's friend Ned was kneeling on the floor inside. Steve could see legs peaking out from behind Ned. Peter. "_In here_!" Ned heaved, tears openly rolling down his cheeks. Steve was across the bathroom and beside him before the kid could heave in another breath. Peter was on the floor by the toilet, rolled on his side in the recovery position with a trail of blood dripping down this forehead. Steve's chest tightened. He knelt down beside Peter, one hand coming to rest on the back of his head to steady him and Steve rolled him gently onto his back to get a better look at him. God, he was pale. Steve's fingers shot to the kid's neck, resting there until he felt the uneven, and alarmingly unsteady, pulse beating beneath his fingers. Steve let out a heavy breath. He was alive. He was alive. Ned was still sobbing beside him. "I don't know what happened – _I don't know what happened-_"

Clint and Sam shouldered their way inside the stall.

"_Shit_." Clint hissed, on his knees beside Steve in an instant. Steve shot him a look when Ned only started to cry harder.

"It's okay – it's alright, we've got him," Steve said, again trying to sound more sure than he really was. He wrapped an around Ned's arm, pushing him gently towards Sam. "He's going to be fine." Steve said, pushing him right into Sam's waiting hands. Sam pulled him out of the stall and Steve turned back to Peter.

"Pete?" He breathed. Clint was running his hands up and down the kid's limbs, his torso, looking for anything wrong. "If you can hear me I need you to let me know?" Steve tried again, digging his knuckles into the kid's sternum in a last ditch attempt to get a response.

Nothing.

Steve's chest grew tighter.

"Is he okay?"

Ned was still leaning around the stall door, despite Sam's attempts to pull him away.

Clint pulled away from Peter, apparently satisfied that he wasn't bleeding internally, and rounded on Ned – clearly trying to be gentle, but like Steve, fighting a loosing battle. Steve stayed by Peter's head, running his fingers through the kid's hair. Maybe he hit his head the night before? "Did he say anything was wrong?" Clint asked Ned. "Before he collapsed?" Ned shook his head roughly, dislodging more tears. Clint's teeth clenched. "Did he say anything hurt?"

Ned shook his head again.

"No," he breathed. "No. He just said he felt sick." He heaved in another breath, wiping his sleeve across his eyes. "And tired – we were up all night – or he was – and then-"

Steve's hands paused where they were running over Peter's face, one back on his neck to monitor his pulse. He felt cold. Too cold.

"What happened last night-"

Steve cut Clint off mid-sentence. Peter was _too_ cold, his pulse _too _thready for just shock.

Steve looked up at Ned.

"-He was out all night?"

"Yeah-" Ned nodded, "-yeah he came straight here, I told him to come stay at mine, or tell May, or something but he and Mr. Bronson had some kind of meeting this morning, and then we have decathlon at lunch, and-"

"-When was the last time he ate?"

Ned stared at Steve as if he had grown another head.

"What?"

"Ate." Steve stressed, his calm composure slipping away. His blood pressure was rising with every minute the kid under his hands was unresponsive and they weren't doing anything to _fix it_. "_Food_."

Ned blinked rapidly.

"I-I don't know?"

"Did he have lunch?"

"-No."

"Breakfast?"

"No-no, he came right here from being on patrol-"

"-Last night? Did he eat at all last night?"

"I-I don't know."

Clint was catching on, one hand wrapped around Peter's wrist and the other resting against his chest. Measuring his breathing and pulse.

"Make an educated guess." Clint cut in.

"N-no." Ned said, tears openly falling now. Sam's arms curled a little tighter around the kid's shoulders. "I don't think so."

Clint and Steve met eyes over Peter's prone form.

"_Shit_." Clint breathed.

_Shit_ just about summed it up. It also summed up what the kid would be in when Tony got his hands on him.

Steve pulled the kid into his arms, tucking his head into the crook of his shoulder to keep his neck steady, and sliding his arms under his back and knees. Clint stepped around them; giving Steve the space to rise with Peter wrapped in his arms and slid them both out of the stall.

The kid's head lolled against his shoulder as Clint lead them all out into the empty hall and back down the stairs.

Steve pulled him a little closer.

"You're going to be okay." He murmured, resting his check on the top of the kid's head. "You're going to be okay."

* * *

"Steve!"

The word clawed itself from Tony's throat as he all but pelted down the medbay hallway. Steve was standing at the end, with Sam and Clint occupying the plastic seats beside him. They all whipped around to stare at Tony as he ran towards them.

Steve pulled away from the wall he'd been leaning against. "Tony?" He asked. "Wha-"

Tony ground to a halt inches from Steve. "Where is he?"

"Why are you here-"

Tony cut Steve off before he could even get the question out. He needed answers. _Now._

"I'm here because my kid is here-"

"-your kid?"

Tony rounded on Clint, and would have taken pride any other day by how much the man shrunk back as Tony glowered down at him.

"_Shut up_!"

Steve stepped between the two off them.

"Tony, breathe, he's fine."

The words trickled through Tony's overrun brain.

"He's fine." Tony repeated.

"He's fine." Steve said again, moving to rest a hand on Tony's shoulder. Tony shook him off.

"I was on the phone with you like, three hours ago, and the kid was unresponsive, _that's not fine_!"

"Just, sit down and-"

"I don't want to sit, just tell me what the hell is going on!"

Steve sighed, but relented.

"Low blood sugar."

Tony openly gaped at him.

"_What_?"

"Hypoglycaemia," Steve elaborated, still keeping close to Tony but not reaching out again. "His blood sugar dropped so quickly he went into shock-"

Clint cut in.

"In other words, he skipped like a day's worth of food, stayed up all night," he said, leaning back in his chair so casually that Tony had to fight the urge to kick the chair out from under him, "and his super-metabolism disagreed with it so he took a nosedive." Clint summed up in one long breath.

Tony stared at them all for a moment.

"You're joking." He said, eventually. No one spoke. "Tell me you're joking."

Steve moved closer, herding him towards the empty chairs beside Sam and Clint.

"Tony, just, sit down and we can-"

Tony pushed past, moving towards the double doors across from them all that would take him through to the trauma rooms. "-no. No. I have to see him-"

Steve took a quick step in front of him, blocking the door.

"-He's resting, but he's _fine_." Steve pressed, holding his hands up as Tony moved to push past him again. "They pumped some fluids and nutrients into him and he's good to go when he wakes up." Steve cast a wary eye over him. "Honestly, you look like you're about to keel over more than he does."

Tony stopped trying to shove past him.

"He's fine?"

The question came out smaller than he'd intended. Raw. Again Tony was hit by the amount of trust he was putting in Steve.

"He's fine." Steve answered, truth etched in every line of his face. "I promise." He swore. "I've had everyone here look at him – I'm fairly sure they all hate me at this point, I've been that insistent – and they all said so."

Tony nodded, absently.

"He's fine."

Steve nodded with him.

"He is."

"Good." Tony said, running a hand through his hair, and across his entire face for good measure. As if he could scrub off the lines he was sure the last few hours had imprinted on him. "Good." He said again, and then let his hands drop. "I'm going to kill him."

Without another word he pushed his way past Steve and shoved open the doors behind him. Steve was on his heels in an instant, but wisely didn't try to cut him off again.

"Tony-"

"_No_," Tony thundered, stalking his way down the hall beyond, scanning an eye through every observation window he passed in an effort to spot the kid."He can't pull shit like this. He knows he has to eat – has to sleep – we've been over it." Tony snapped. "I knew it was too early to give the suit back." He fumed, but more at himself than anything. "I knew he wasn't ready."

A hand shot out from behind him, pulling Tony around and to a stop. Steve stood resolute in front of him.

"He is ready."

"_Bullshit _he is-"

"He didn't make a mistake, Tony." Steve said over him, his voice _infuriatingly_ calm. "He chose to put the welfare of others over his own."

That was enough to snap what little composure Tony had been clinging to.

"Well he _shouldn't have_."

Steve's lips twisted into a small smile. Tony fought the urge to punch it off of his face. "No offence," Steve said. "But I don't think that's an argument you're ever going to win with him."

"Watch me."

Tony tried to spin away from him again, to stalk further down the hall and find the damn kid – to make sure he was _really_ fine, and then kill him. In that order. Before he could take more than one step Steve was ahead of him again. Blocking him, again.

"Don't punch me in the face for saying this," Steve began, and Tony's fists clenched in preparation. "But you really don't have much of a leg to stand on in that argument."

"_Excuse me_?"

It took everything Tony had not to take a swing. Steve held up a placating hand, but wisely took a small step back.

"You flew a nuclear bomb into space, and _very nearly_ didn't make it back out." Steve said quickly. "You kept using the suit, even when it was killing you."

Yeah. Tony was definitely going to hit him.

"-those were _very different_ circumstances, and a _long_ time ago-"

"-locked yourself in the lab for over thirty hours trying to finish a project." Steve kept going right over the top of Tony. "Drank twelve cups of coffee in a single day instead of eating _actual_ food. Flight-tested upgrades that you weren't not certain would work, and catapulted yourself through a window." He heaved out in one long breath. "And those were last week," he added when Tony moved to argue.

"Yeah – well," Tony floundered for a moment, "I'm adult, I can do all that shit-"

"And the day he turns eighteen you'll be fine with him doing the same?"

Tony rounded on Steve with a fury he hadn't touched since Ross hit the floor of his office for the last time.

"Are you saying this is my fault!?" He roared. He was sure the others could hear it from down the hall – but he didn't really care by this point. This was _not_ his fault. He had told the kid to look after himself. He had _told him_-

"No. _No_." Steve cut in immediately, his voice hard. "This wasn't anyone's fault." He insisted. "It was bad timing, and poor decision making on Pete's part – that he will definitely be getting a talking to about, I'm sure, when May gets here – but it wasn't anyone's fault." He repeated, and Tony's hackles slowly started to lower. Steve must have noticed because he took a cautionary step forward and continued. "I'm saying that giving him a lecture about taking care of himself probably wont end well for you."

"So, what?" Tony fumed. "I should just let this go?"

"No. Talk to him." Steve said, calm as ever. The urge to punch him in that overly perfect face hit Tony again. "Let him know what he did wrong – and then _show_ him how to take care of himself." He added. "The whole do as I say, not as I do, it wont work." He paused for a second, chewing on his words, but before Tony could find a point to argue Steve went on. And thoroughly obliterated any retaliation Tony had planned. "Tony, that kid _loves_ you." Steve murmured, his eyes so wide and _honest_ that Tony found himself looking away. "In his eyes, you can do no wrong."

The words swelled in Tony's chest. Burrowing in every crevasse.

And then they fled from him. Leaving him empty.

"Well, that's just not true."

The words hurt to say.

"It's not true of anyone." Steve said. "And it's not really fair to put on someone – but it's what he believes. And you wont change his mind." Steve's eyes fell for the first time, weaving around the empty hall and then back to Tony. There was uncertainty in them when the finally glanced back up. "Look, I know, growing up, you didn't have many people to look to," Steve hesitated. "I know that Howard was-" He broke off, but only for a moment, "he wasn't there for you, like he should have been. You didn't have anyone, like Peter has you-"

Tony shook his head. Not that Steve was wrong, per say, it just didn't matter anymore. The damage was done. Tony's damage was permanent, and not something he should be inflicting on Peter.

"-He shouldn't be looking up to someone like me." Tony cut in. "It should be you."

Steve's answer was instant. And firm.

"No, it shouldn't." He said, the words no longer a murmur. They were like stone now. "Don't get me wrong, I love that kid." He stressed. "I would do anything for him – anyone on this team would. But he _needs_ you." Steve reached out to Tony, but didn't let his hands quite touch him. Instead they just hovered between the two of them. "No one can give him what you can. Can stimulate him like you can. Keep him moving, keep him focused." A small smile passed across Steve's lips. "Understand the techno-babble that comes out of his mouth at about three-thousand miles an hour." A low chuckle clawed its way out of Tony's throat despite his chest still feeling like it was about to implode any minute. "You give him purpose. You are _good_ for him, Tony." Tony shook his head, but Steve didn't let him get a word out. "You can teach him – _god knows_ we couldn't." Steve ploughed on over his clear disagreement. "You've taught him so much already just by being around him. You can show him how to do this too."

For a moment neither of them said anything.

Tony let out a long sigh, running his hands over his face again.

"He's still in trouble."

"Oh, absolutely." Steve agreed without hesitation. "I was the one who called May. She is not pleased."

Another chuckle slipped through Tony's lips. But this one was shorter, dying faster than it came and leaving him feeling even more empty that before.

Another silence fell between them.

"What if I'm not enough?"

The words had been echoing in Tony's mind since he'd turned up on the kid's doorstep. He'd told himself he would be. The kid had no one else, it wasn't like he could be worse than no one at all – though the Ross _incidents_ had definitely tested that assumption – but the thought had still haunted him. Kept him up more nights than he cared to admit. Admitting it now felt like defeat.

It felt like failure.

Steve's hand, which had still been hovering between the two of them, finally fell.

"As someone who was shoved into the role of national icon after absolutely no preparation, and with no clue what I was doing," Steve said, his voice heavy. "You can trust me when I say, no one knows what they're doing." Tony glanced up to find those blue eyes staring down at him. "And no one is enough."

"You were." Tony argued, but there was no heat in the words. It felt like there was nothing left in him at all. "You tell anyone this and I'll deny it, but I had your trading cards. Watched all of those stupid movies." Tony muttered, looking anywhere but at Steve. "You taught kids right from wrong."

"No." Steve murmured. "I didn't."

Tony's eyes darted back to Steve – and those blue eyes were waiting for him.

"I taught them what was expected of them – and that's one of my regrets." Steve said. Each word looked like it cost him more energy than he had, but he didn't stop. "Everything I did, all of those stupid movies and cards, and god knows what else, it taught them to be fearless. To be righteous and strong, and when things get in your way to barrel right through them." Steve moved closer to Tony, leaning up against the hallway wall beside them and driving his hands deep into his pockets. It was a picture of vulnerability that, without seeing it with his own eyes, Tony would never have dreamed Steve could encapsulate.

"I did have people to look to when I was growing up." Steve went on, the words a little stronger, but not without clear effort. "My dad died when I was young – you probably knew that – but our neighbourhood took care of one another. So I grew up under the wing of some of the tougher guys there, and they showed me the value of those things – to be brave, and righteous and strong," Steve's eyes dropped, just for a moment, "but they also showed me the importance of being weak." He looked back up at Tony. "They showed me the importance of being afraid, of being wrong, because those are the things that unite people. They are what help us to evolve; to embrace one another." Steve heaved out a heavy sigh. "When all you do is lecture people on is being strong, and being right, you end up with your face on a white-supremacy poster."

Tony couldn't help the grimace that curled his lips. He remembered that. He remembered what seeing it has seemed to cost Steve.

"That wasn't your fault." Tony said. "You didn't choose what to say. The Army did. You were just the puppet."

"I was." Steve nodded. "But I still said it. And not a day goes by where I don't wish I could take it back." The words hung between them for so long that Tony thought he might no speak again, but eventually he did. "Maybe if I had talked about embracing weakness, and fear, people wouldn't be so scared to talk about it now." Steve murmured. His eyes fell again. And so did his voice. "Maybe if I'd talked about embracing failure, _you_ wouldn't be so terrified of it."

The words froze Tony for a moment – brain, mouth, and all. Not an easy feat. He gaped at Steve for a moment, caught between denying the words outright, and denying Steve's role in them, but neither made it past his lips.

Steve's eyes crept back up to Tony's face and Tony was struck by how tired he looked. Steve always seemed like a beacon of energy – second only to Peter's almost manic enthusiasm – but that light was nowhere to be found. The horrific idea that that elusion of energy was a front Steve used to keep up appearances crossed Tony's mind, and wouldn't leave.

"That's the price of being a mentor, knowing that you're always going to fail that kid. Just a little. Somehow." Steve went on. "Because you make mistakes, you speak carelessly or you act recklessly." Every word seemed to hurt, but he didn't stop. "But it's worth it, because that kid will grow up, and they'll see the faults in you that they couldn't before," Steve swallowed, eyes glassy, "And they wont fail the next kid."

* * *

"Mr. Stark?"

Tony's head snapped up from where it had been resting against the kid's mattress. His eyes, once they focused, zeroed in on the kid who was awake, half-upright, and looking more than a little confused.

"Hey, kid." Tony said, scrubbing a hand over his aching eyes. .

Peter cast a look over the room, and then back to Tony, as if he might disappear.

"I thought you were going to Belgium?"

Tony nodded, sitting back in the chair he had pulled up to rest beside the kid's bed. "I was." He said. "I came back-"

Peter's eyes widened to the size of saucers, threatening to pop out of his skull.

"I'm _so_ sorry!" He breathed, wrenching himself all the way upright before Tony could move to stop him. "You didn't have to do that – I'm fine, I swear. I'm so sorry. You didn't have to miss your thing-"

Tony moved closer, reaching out a hand to steady the kid.

"The conference is not as important as you." He said. The kid still looked stricken. "No conference is more important than you." Tony added, putting weight behind each word. The kid had to know that. Had to know he could count on it, always.

Tony let his hand fall back to the mattress.

"Did the doctors explain what happened to you?"

The kid's eyes fixed on the blanket bunched in his hands. Avoiding Tony's gaze.

"Yeah."

Tony nodded again.

"You scared the shit out of me, kid."

"I'm sorry."

Tony folded his hands beneath his chin and rested in head on them. "Don't be sorry." He said. "Just," he heaved in a heavy breath that he definitely needed. "Please, take better care of yourself." He ran a hand over his inching eyes. "For my peace of mind."

The kid was quick to nod. "I will, I promise."

Tony nodded along with his, although slower. How the kid hadn't done his neck already was a miracle.

They fell into silence – though it was by no means uncomfortable. Tony finally felt like he could take a few deep, and steadying, breaths that he sorely needed, and the kid eventually settled back onto his mattress – although he did continue to shoot Tony a glance every few seconds. Waiting for the anger.

It didn't come.

"Sometimes I set alarms," Tony murmured, more into his hands, upon which his chin was still perched, than to Peter. "To remember to eat. Or sleep." Peter's eyes darted over to him, but he didn't interrupt. The crease between his eyes made it clear he was not quite sure where Tony was going with this. Not that Tony really knew either. But he knew he had to try. "I don't have the best track record when it comes to that stuff." Tony went on. "I find it really hard to let go when I have something. An idea, or a, well anything really, I'm a work until it's done kind of guy."

That brought out a chuckle from the kid.

"I know." Peter breathed, the beginning of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. The smile hurt Tony a little, somewhere deep down where he had long ago buried the truth behind his odd habits.

"I know you do." Tony murmured. His eyes met Peters, and despite the almost burning urge to drop his gaze Tony did not. "But I also need you to know that it's not a good thing."

That crease between the kid's eyes deepened.

"Being hard-working isn't a good thing?" He asked slowly.

Tony pressed his chin a little harder onto his folded fingers, the pressure offering some small comfort as his heart raced. "That's not being hard-working, Peter." He managed to force through his teeth. Again the urge to drop his eyes hit, and again he ignored it. Those wide, chocolate, eyes were staring at him, and he refused to let them slip away from him. "It's an anxiety fuelled spiral that only goes downwards." Tony murmured. Peter's eyes widened, but didn't dart away. In fact the kid didn't move at all. Just stared at Tony raptly, as if he were spilling the answers to the universe – and _god_, he wished he could. Wished he could answer all of the kid's questions. Be everything he needed, but Steve was right. He was flawed. And Peter needed to see it. "I don't keep working, beyond when I should, because I want to. I don't _forget_ to eat or sleep, I just don't. Because there's this voice in the back of my head telling me that I'm not allowed to stop until I'm done. I'm not allowed to rest, or eat, because I'm not finished. Because I haven't done enough." Tony's voice caught a little, tripping over a truth he never thought he'd utter aloud, but he fought through it, "because I haven't worked hard enough-"

Peter cut over him, those chocolate eyes wide and _horrified_.

"-you work harder than anyone!" Peter heaved. "Ever."

Tony chuckled, but it did nothing to loosen the knot in his chest. "Thanks, kid," He breathed. "But, that's why I set the alarms – to remind myself – but even then I ignore them sometimes, and Pep has to come down and drag me away. But, it's not a _good_ thing. It's not dedication. It's just-" Tony's voice caught again. His tongue tripping over the words even a year ago he could never have seen himself admitting. But those eyes were still fixed on him – still wide and so painfully _young_. He needed to understand. Tony needed to show him. "Fear." He breathed. "Fear of failing." The words cost him something to say out loud, but as he watched the kid take them in he found it was a cost he was willing to pay. "Of not being enough." The words came out rough, and there was no way that the kid didn't notice, but he didn't interrupt. "And I don't want that for you." Tony heaved, lifting his head from his hands and setting them down in front of him instead, resting on the kid's mattress. He sucked in another sorely needed breath and went on, forcing his voice to be lighter. "So take a break – for god-sake eat something, _often_ – and you'll do better work. Trust me on that. You should see some of the shit I come out with after an over-extended lab-stint." Tony muttered, "that's when sentient toasters happen, and I set myself on fire." The kid laughed, but his eyes were still wide. And glistening. Tony's eyes finally fell. "It's not pretty." He grunted, fiddling with the blankets by the kid's legs. "I guess what I'm trying to say, and definitely failing to do, is to take care of yourself." Tony said, "I know it can feel selfish sometimes, but the truth is you can't help people if you don't help yourself first."

"I know." Tony's eyes rose to meet Peter's again, and the kid was staring down at his with an absolute conviction that seemed out of place on his young, geeky, frame. "I _do_." Peter stressed. "I just, I get distracted." It was the kid's eyes that fell now, staring down at the blue blanket piled in his lap. "I don't want to slip at things – not school, or decathlon, or patrolling."

"I know." Tony nodded. "But taking a day off to sleep, or eat, or chill and watch some much deserved Netflix, isn't slipping." He assured, the kid nodded, but barely. "You can keep going the next day." Tony pressed. "And you'll be better for it."

The kid nodded again, his eyes still firmly fixed on the blanket in his lap.

"Are you going to take the suit?"

Tony sat up straight, and the kid's eyes finally rose to meet his again.

"No." Tony said, and the kid's eyes widened again. "Worse." Tony went on. "I'm going to do nothing, hoping that you will take all this on board. _And_ if we end up here again I'm going to pull out my 'very disappointed face'." He stressed, eyeing Peter with a heavy stare. "It's brutal. I've been practicing." The kid's face seemed frozen between disbelief and hysterics. "I'll even bring in Cap's. His is, like, 'the ultimate you've disappointed face'." Tony warned, waving a finger in the kid's face. "It cuts. I can tell you from experience." That seemed to be the tipping point, because the kid couldn't hold in a snort of laughter anymore. He snickered as silently as he could manage, looking more like he was chocking than laughing. "So, consider yourself warned."

Peter raced to nod, his chuckles dying.

"I'll do better, I promise."

Again the words had more sincerity than any kid should really have been able to muster. Tony found himself wondering if Spiderman had aged the kid, or if he'd always been like that, always too smart – and too kind – for his own good.

"I know you will."

Tony nodded one last time and then rose to his feet. May had gone to speak to Steve, but she'd be back any moment and the two off them likely needed a moment.

Before Tony could make it a couple of steps from the bed, however, the kid called out to him. "Mr. Stark-" Tony turned back around to find those too young, too wide, chocolate eyes boring into him. "You're always enough. Always."

The words dug themselves deep into Tony's chest, deep enough that he suspected they would never leave him.

Hoped they might never leave him.

"Thanks, kid."

* * *

"Pete awake?"

Steve's voice was soft as he watched Tony lower himself into the plastic chair next to him in the medbay hall. Sam and Clint had disappeared, but Steve was just where Tony had left him.

"Yeah," Tony nodded, "May's in with him now."

"Good." Steve sighed. "I spoke to the doctors, they said he's good to go."

"Thanks." Tony said, and, not for the first time, he meant it. A silence fell between the two of them.

Tony broke it.

"I get what you mean," Tony murmured. "About sending the wrong message. And you did, a bit." Tony kept his eyes firmly fixed on the expensive fabric of his pants, but he could see the way Steve tensed beside him. "You helped to form a lot of narcissistic assholes, such as myself." Tony waved a hand majestically, earning himself a small but genuine sounding chuckle from the seat beside him. "But when I was alone – and I was alone, a lot – and small," Tony's head dipped thoughtfully, "or smaller," He allowed. "The idea of you – this tiny kid from Brooklyn who was kicked down his entire life – made it a little easier to stand up again every time I fell." The words were barely more than a whisper. Another truth buried so deep that unearthing it felt a little bit like stripping down naked and taking a stroll down Fifth Avenue – but Steve had come through for him. Had caught the kid when he needed him.

Had caught Tony when he felt like he was falling.

"And for the kid who had everything but someone to help him up when he fell, it meant a lot."

Tony caught Steve's slow nod out of the corner of his eye, doing his best to keep his attention fixed on the fine, Italian leather of his shoes as Steve whipped a hand across his eyes.

"Thank-you, Tony."

The words were so soft Tony almost missed them.

"You tell anyone I said that and I'll deny it."

Another genuine chuckle wafted over Tony.

"I know you will."

* * *

Merry Christmas/ Happy Holidays!

Wow. So I planned this to be much shorter that how it ended up – but I am pretty happy with where it went. I hope you are too, let me know in the comments! I love to hear your thoughts!

As I said this will be another compilation of one-shots, but I have learnt my lesson and will not be guessing when the next one will be up. I'm now working full-time, as well as working on some personal writing, so I can't say when updates will be, but they are coming!

Every single one of you who come, read, comment, and encourage me are a Christmas miracle of my own. My confidence in my own writing has grown so much since I first found my way here, and it only makes me want to share more – so I say to all of you Merry Christmas/ Happy Holidays and thank-you so much! You are a part of my life that I am always thankful for this time of year!

Until next time…


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